I didn’t know just how pivotal sex therapy would be until my second session.
Unpacking can be brutal. It requires that you hold a scalpel, constantly at the ready to slice yourself down the middle. Shit needs to pour out that’s clogging up the pipes, especially the sexual ones. Much of my sexual life is a blur. My anxious, lizard brain doing me the solid of blocking out a good chunk of memories - not solely due to the act, but the person wielding the pleasure. In this, I’ve been learning how to separate the act from the person but even that doesn’t bring those memories to full lucidity. I remember my first penetrative orgasm pretty clearly (I wrote about it here) and a passing instance of sloppy head (giver and receiver) but dassit. Because I’m who I am - I cannot leave well enough alone because it’s not well enough for me - I sought out higher assistance.
Black women have taken our places in the myriad of sex-positive spaces. From the work of Jimanekia Eborn that centers sexual education and trauma support for survivors of sexual assault to ShaVaughn Elle who combines the worlds of sex and spirituality in affirming and actionable ways to Mama Z the Guru, who singlehandedly got us all to run out for pink Kitty Kat pills. Sex education for the culture by the culture is leaving an indelible mark on our lives. Gone (mostly) are the days of Purity Culture being the go-to doctrine. That legs being crossed at the ankles and knees are the surefire ways to prevent unwanted touch. Instead, many of us are learning sex education in real-time from folks that look like us, talk like us, smile like us, with no judgment or requirements to abstain unless we desire to do so. Especially during quarantine, I can easily scroll through down my IG page and see classes on dick riding, cunnilingus, sexual anatomy and autonomy, how to talk about your desires, centering yourself during sex, speaking up during sex, sexual recovery, the list is endless. More and more, Black women are pushing the envelopes and deleting the margins to save us and themselves. In going for my sexology certification, I started with the thoughts of how I could help the mission. How I could make things better for survivors of intimate partner abuse and rape through sexual reclamation after sexual trauma. That was my focus upon beginning my studies. As I’ve gone deeper, I’ve realized the main person I need to save is me, and anyone else saved on the way is an incredible bonus. That’s what I most appreciate from those I began following and looking up to doing this work. They bleed. They share. They put themselves into the fire, not for the entertainment of the masses, but to themselves become forged. I’ve watched them share their struggles, their mistakes, their vulnerability while remaining sharp on the draw to answer questions and draw boundaries.
I sought out sex therapy as I’m carving out what sex looks/feels/sounds for me post-trauma. Having been in CBT therapy for just over two years with Dr. Tubman, this side of my life had gone relatively untapped. I believe I thought that when I get everything else in order, sex would just follow suit. But sex requires its own path; its own exploration and unpacking. During my intake session, I remember the other times I’d prepared to lay myself bare. Clipboard in hand, I envisioned how I would look on the other side, pulling at the recesses of my imagination for what healthy looked like. Those who have helped me most have looked like me on the other side of the table. As I readied to meet again virtually with Jasmine, I go over in my head all I’m ready to discuss. I walk her down how being silenced in childhood presented itself in my sexual and romantic experiences. She shares with me her wisdom - how the pathologies of abusers will play out no matter the target - that predators seek out prey. The words still knock around inside me. It’s still fresh as I’m allowing them to take root. I share that a part of me doesn’t want to believe it isn’t my fault. So much of my identity has been built on the never-ending need to fix me. She listens intently and gives me something new: choice. The choice on how to move forward. The choice to take it if it works for me, or leave it where it lays. There was no shame, no demanding of me doing it this way. Instead, the gentle reminder that I have the control on how fast we go and that staying here for a bit to slow walk is acceptable. I sat in my car affirmed, like how your good sis makes you feel after she gives you the real but doesn’t break you down.
Black women save us all. It’s in our blood. More than ever, we reserve the right to save ourselves. To save our bodies and psyches in recovery. To learn, unlearn and relearn. To be pro-I do what the fuck I want.
In healing. In laughter. In real shit.
Follow and support these dope ass Black sex educators:
Jasmine Johnson, Virtual Mental Health Therapist - jetsettingjasmine
Cameron Glover, Sex Ed Business Coach - blkgirlmanifest
Jade T. Perry, Writer, Speaker, Sex Educator - jadetperry
Ashley Cobb, Sex Blogger & Cannapreneur - Sex with Ashley
Jade Erotica, Pleasure Coach & Poet - jade_erotic_storyteller2